


The Hourglass Has Broken

by lexery_tonic



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Eventual Smut, F/M, Out of Character, Slow Burn, Time Travel, he attack, he eventually love mudblood back, he protect
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:53:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28355754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lexery_tonic/pseuds/lexery_tonic
Summary: "Granger, please promise me you'll never actually use this spell. Time magic is fragile. Wizards can barely use a time turner correctly without going insane or getting themselves killed. You're brilliant for coming up with something as advanced and complex as this, but even Gryffindor's Princess couldn't withstand these kinds of effects."She snatched her journal back from his long fingers."You've no say in what I do or don't do, Malfoy. Besides, we have work to do. We need to focus."
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 17
Kudos: 35





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Obviously I don't own any characters, all characters are the intellectual property of J.K. Rowling.
> 
> This is my first attempt at fanfiction, but I've had this idea for quite some time. This is my attempt to make it all come to fruition, so I hope you enjoy!

Hermione Granger shot up in bed, screaming and gasping.

She’d barely adjusted to the darkness around her when a light flicked on in the hall, shining under her door. The door opened quickly, and she automatically closed her eyes against the sudden brightness. And then she was suddenly enveloped by a familiar smell—her mother’s perfume.

 _This has to be a dream_ , she thought. _Maybe I got hit, too. Maybe this is some sort of purgatory or hell reserved for me, personally_.

Hermione felt her mother’s arms wrap around her, felt her nose being tickled by her mother’s hair as her cheek rested against the top of Hermione’s head.

“Shh, it’s okay, Hermione. We’re here. Mum and dad are here.”

But _how?_

It was a struggle getting herself to focus enough to puzzle it out, mostly because of the god-awful screaming and gasping that still hadn’t stopped. After a long moment, she realized it was coming from her.

She closed her mouth, cutting off the screams and cries, but the trembling continued. Hermione swallowed hard, trying to keep her sobs to herself as she clung tightly to her mother, to what she’d given up years ago.

This shouldn’t be possible. They shouldn’t remember they have a daughter, let alone her name.

She jumped slightly when a hand landed on her back, rubbing slow, soft circles. “That’s a girl,” he says. Her father.

She was still crying, but she knew that it was for an entirely different reason.

It’s really them. The realization hits hard, compounded with guilt and remorse. She did what she had to do, and she knew it, but that didn’t make it sting any less.

She felt overwhelmed, felt herself gasping for breath, shudders wracking her body as tears kept falling despite her best efforts to stop them.

Hermione’s mother rocked her gently. “Easy, now. Hush, love, hush. I’ve got you,” she hummed.

Hermione had missed this—missed _them_. She hadn’t realized how much, or how hard it was until she was back in her mum’s arms, hearing their voices and being comforted again the way every child needs comfort from their parents.

Her heart felt broken, and she wasn’t sure it’d ever be whole again.

“I—I’m okay, mum. Really. Go back to bed, okay?” She pulled away and did her best to smile reassuringly. “It was just a bad dream. I’m okay,” she repeated.

Nodding, her mother reluctantly planted a kiss on top of her daughter’s head and stood. Hermione’s father leaned in, kissing her cheek before following her mother out the door. The door clicked shut and the hallway went dark.

They tried to keep their voices down as they walked away, but the sparsely decorated hall did nothing but allow their voices to echo off the walls and floor.

“It’s getting worse, Richard. I thought she’d bring the whole house down around us, it was shaking so bad. What are we going to do?”

Their footsteps stopped, and Hermione could imagine her father pulling her mother into his arms. Richard Granger was a fixer. He always had been. He wanted to be the one to solve a problem, stop the tears, put the pieces back together. Not having the solution was enough to break him. Hermione’s heart cracks and breaks further knowing how much pain he had to be in.

“I know, darling. Whatever this is, it seems like it’s only getting worse.”

A soft sob that Hermione knew came from Helen.

Her parents had both always been such strong people. She couldn’t shake the thought that it was her fault that they were breaking. She quickly put a hand over her mouth, muffling a sob of her own. They deserved a moment to break, to not have to worry about her overhearing or being affected by it. She resolved to give them that much.

“Do you think we should try to find a—a doctor, or…”

She didn’t miss the humorless laugh from her father.

“They’ll lock her up straightaway, Helen. Not to mention the questions they’d have for us. No, I don’t think there’s any sort of professional that would be able to help us. We’ll have to do our best to handle it here. On our own. Like we always have.”

The footsteps resumed and the door closed a moment later.

Hermione rolled onto her side, pulling covers up to her chin and drawing her knees to her chest. Despite knowing she probably wouldn’t be able to, she closed her eyes and tried to will herself to sleep.

Every time she closed her eyes, his eyes haunted her. It’d be one thing, she reasoned, if she saw them the same way each time; if every time she’d see his lifeless pools of silver staring back at her, she could at least desensitize herself to the shock of it. She should’ve known, though, that she couldn’t be that kind to herself when it was her own fault that he was gone in the first place.

Instead, each time her eyes closed, different memories would play before her.

The appraising looks he’d give when he thought she wasn’t paying attention— _but I always was when it came to you, why didn’t you ever realize that?_ —and the way his eyes shined when he thought something was funny, especially when it was at someone else’s expense. Or his smile. Gods, his _smile_.

It’s too much.

There won’t be any sleep for her. Not tonight.

In the relative quiet of the house, she can hear soft snores—she was never certain if they were her mum’s or dad’s because they both snored frighteningly loud, sometimes—echoed down the hall.

She flipped her bedside lamp on. Something in her chest rose and fell at the same time at the sight of her old bedroom. She hadn’t been there in years. It somehow feels like she never left, but foreign at the same time. Like she’s an observer. An outsider, watching everything from a distance.

She shouldn’t be here.

She can’t understand how she’s here.

He’d said she was going to have to do this on her own.

In her last memories, she was chanting a spell she’d created. She’d done it out of curiosity, on a whim. It was never practiced or really researched and developed. She’d decided to give it a go after reading a dusty book on a forgotten old shelf in the Malfoy library that piqued her interest. It wasn’t supposed to leave her journal.

The look he gave her when he found the page tucked into the back, never meant for anyone but Hermione herself to see, haunted her. He’d made her swear to never use it. He’d said that time was fragile enough and that messing around with it was incredibly dangerous. He made her swear to research it more before she even thought about trying it.

There wasn’t time to go for the time turner she’d worn. Something must have backfired. She wasn’t supposed to go so far. And yet, she was somehow alive.

Her chest gave a painful throb, and she realized it’d been aching for awhile and she hadn’t been able to draw a full, deep breath since she woke.

She pushed the covers off and stood, curling her toes into the plush carpeting. It’d always been her favorite thing about her room, and even in the whirlwind of confusion and overwhelming shock she found herself in, she couldn’t help wanting to indulge in small comforts.

She crossed the room to her full-length mirror tucked in the corner next to her dresser. Her eyes widened, and she once again pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle her gasp.

Hermione Granger was an 11-year-old girl once again. She assumed it was actually before her 11th birthday from how her parents were talking just moments ago. She reached forward, pressing fingertips to the mirror. A large part of her is surprised when the Hermione in the mirror does the same.

A though hits her like a bolt of lightning and she turned her back to the mirror, craning her neck, trying to get a look at her left shoulder in the mirror.

She breathed a sigh of relief. There it is. The mark that bound her to him, marking her as his.

The Dragon constellation.

She reached back, letting her fingers graze the mark. It’s just barely visible, the stars making up the constellation slightly raised. To an untrained eye, it probably looks like an odd smattering of freckles. But she knew it for what it was. He and Narcissa had both taken great care to explain to Hermione _exactly_ what it was. He had the same mark in the same spot.

He is hers; she is his.

Was.

He _was_ hers.

She _was_ his.

She’s struck by another thought. Nothing backfired. Not really. She’d gone back too far, yes, but by the same token, she’d gone back just far enough.

She had an opportunity to fix it. All of it.

Her chest tightened again, painfully.

She turned back to the mirror, remembering her initial reason for getting out of bed. She pulled the straps of her tank top down off her shoulders and braced herself against the mirror when it dipped down far enough for her to see the cause of the tightness.

She hadn’t lost the time turner. Far, far from it.

It’s a part of her.

Literally.

Embedded in her skin.

In her chest.

She could hear a soft ticking in time with the beat of her heart.

She felt sick when she realized _she_ was the source of the ticking.

The edges of her vision blurred. She could feel magic coursing through her veins, pooling in her fingertips, begging to be used. She leaned forward, resting her forehead against the cool glass of the mirror.

_Tick…_

_Tick…_

_Tick…_


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After some feedback, I went ahead and switched the voice so that it was in third person rather than first. Going forward, chapters will be in third person. Thank you for the feedback, it's always much appreciated.

It’d be a lie to say that she slept at all that night.

She could return to the past. she could save the man she loved. She could save the entirety of the wizarding world. It was a lot to think about and process and there was absolutely no way she could get her brain to cooperate and shut down enough for sleep.

She did the only thing she really could—plan.

She had to fix everything, keep everyone alive.

Hermione sat at her desk, notebook open in front of her, pen tapping lightly against the pages as she thought. It wasn’t all that different to how she’d start essays for her teachers at Hogwarts. She’d brainstorm what she wanted to say and how before actually trying to write it all down. She hated wasting any of her supplies and found early on that it was much less wasteful if she mentally got everything straight before starting to put quill to parchment.

Slowly, she starts writing everything down. Everything, even things that she wasn’t actually there for, like when Harry spoke Parsletongue for the first time with his cousin at the zoo. Ron talking about his brother Charlie graduating from Hogwarts and visiting Romania for the first time. Draco’s grandfather’s funeral.

Looking at her wall calendar, Hermione learned that it’s winter break. She had three weeks to spend as much time as she could with her mum and dad. Three weeks to plan out her next steps.

Christmas with the Grangers normally consisted of shopping with her cousins in London. Opening presents with her dad’s mum on Christmas Eve. Opening remaining presents and dinner with her mum’s family on Christmas Day.

 _I can sneak into Diagon Alley during the shopping trip_ , she thought, biting her lip.

Her piggy bank stared at her from her bookshelf. Every spare pound and pence she’d ever made or found had gone straight in there. She would crack it open only on the rarest of occasions, usually to buy herself a new book. But when compared with most other kids her age, Hermione had more money that most.

She pulled the rubber cork out of the bottom, letting it all spill out. She folded each pound note carefully and counted out each pence piece before dropping them into a rubber wallet her father had given her for her birthday years ago. She dug a bookbag out of her closet and tucked the wallet into the front pocket, zipping it closed carefully. Time permitting, when she visited Gringotts, she’d open her account and exchange the money there.

She sat back at her desk and ripped a few fresh sheets of paper from her notebook. There are letters that need to be written, one to a person who will play an integral role in keeping herself—and Draco—alive.

With a breath, she began with the easiest.

_To Mr. Sirius Black…_

She shook out the cramp in her hand when she finished and glanced at the digital clock on her desk. 02:46. She signed the letter “HG”, folded it, and tucked it into an envelope before grabbing a new sheet of paper.

_To Mr. Remus Lupin…_

The hardest letter she saved for last. Even thinking the name brought a sting of tears to her eyes, but this one was probably the most important one she’d write tonight.

She hazards a glance at the clock—04:00.

_To Mrs. Narcissa Malfoy…_

She stopped and started, struggled over what to say, how to make it believable and gain her trust. Tried not to sound crazy. Tried to stress how important it was that she listen, take her seriously, that Hermione was the best chance Draco had of surviving.

Letters written, signed, and sealed, she placed them carefully in her bag and moved on to listing out things she would need to do and get in Diagon Alley.

Gringotts tops the list, followed by visiting the owl post and opening a letter box in order to receive responses to her letters. She made a note to ask the post about forwarding the letters to her home from her letter box. The box was only to make it harder to be tracked if her recipients decided to try.

Another glance at the clock. 06:00.

She could already hear the shower in her parent’s bathroom running—her father waking up for the day.

She tucked the notebook into her bag and hid it in the back of her closet.

London is tomorrow.

Her plan would be enacted tomorrow.

She dressed and went downstairs.

It was still a shock, seeing her childhood home just the way that she remembered it, perfect and intact. She traced the picture frames along the stairs, taking in the family photos and her school pictures. She was still dazed when her mother came down for cup of morning coffee.

“You’re up early after such a late night, my love,” she said, wrapping her arms around Hermione kissing the top of her head.

“I’m sorry, mum,” Hermione said, a sense of guilt overwhelming her. How many times did she scare her parents with her magic? How many times would her family be endangered because of her and what she was?

She jumped slightly feeling her father drop a hand on her shoulder. She hadn’t heard him come in. He kissed her cheek and gave her a light squeeze before going to her mother and giving her a kiss as well.

“What do we have on the agenda for today, girls?” he asked, going for the pot of coffee.

She felt the sudden need to try and make it up to them. Make up for all the worry she’d caused them and for not being able to be the normal daughter that they so deserved.

“I just want to spend time with you guys,” she said.

* * *

Three puzzles and two movies later, the Grangers sat lounged on their old leather couch in the den. She listened to them telling old stories about her and the family.

Her father gave a loud belly laugh as he recounted a holiday the family had taken in France.

“It was early June and we’d gone to France for the summer. You, of course, had a blast, dragging us all over the place. You wanted to see everything there was to see.” He smiled at his daughter lovingly. He liked to say she got her insatiable curiosity and her constant thirst for knowledge from him.

“Your grandparents suggested we go to the beach. They wanted to give us a little break. So, they took you down the beach a bit and sat with you, helping you make a wonderful sandcastle. But none of us put sunscreen on you. I assumed your mother did it, your mother assumed your grandmother did it, and your grandmother assumed your grandfather did it. You ended up with one hell of a sunburn.” His smile turned to a grimace, remembering a three-year-old Hermione, red from head to toe. “You adamantly said you’d punish the sun. Of course, we all had a good laugh about it. You were only three! But somehow, you had the words to tell us the sun would be punished and punished _severely_.” Another chuckle as he reached for his daughter, ruffling her already wild hair, remembering Hermione’s narrowed eyes, stomping feet and wiggling finger as she shouted at the sun.

“Next thing we know, the moon is covering the sun—a partial eclipse. We couldn’t believe it; it was such a coincidence!”

“You had sun poisoning,” her mother added, “but we didn’t know how bad your burn was until you passed out. And then the moon just…stopped! They said it was just a partial eclipse. Your grandfather liked to joke, though, saying you were the reason it happened in the first place. He always thought you were so special.”

“He indulged you like crazy,” her father said with a smile and a slight shake of his head. “He always used to say that only Hermione could steal the brightness of the sun right out of the sky.”

“I didn’t know about any of that,” Hermione said with a nervous laugh. She was almost positive it wasn’t, but she couldn’t help but hope it was all just some kind of coincidence and not her magic trying to move the literal moon. It was impossible. It was unheard of.

Her grandpa always called her bright, but that was about all she could remember of him. She had vague memories of his funeral—she was five, it was cold, and her grandmother clung to her father, sobbing uncontrollably. And she could remember being nestled in his lap, playing with his beard as he read books to her.

They continued reminiscing, and almost without her permission, her eyes grew heavy and began to drift closed. She let herself be lulled to sleep by her family’s stories.

She woke at some point to her father scooping her up and carrying her upstairs, into her room. She’d missed dinner, but she got a good night’s sleep in preparation for her busy day.

* * *

She woke to her mother’s gentle hands, lifting her hair off her neck and shaking her shoulder. “Time to get up, my love,” she said, giving a tiny squeeze to her shoulder.

Hermione opened her eyes slowly. She still couldn’t quite adjust to her mother being around. “Good morning, mum,” she said on a yawn. Helen kissed her cheek.

“We’ll leave in an hour,” and she stood and left, leaving her bedroom door cracked behind her.

Hermione rubbed her eyes and stretched. She got out of bed and headed straight for her closet, pulling her backpack out from its hiding place. She had work to do. It all had to happen today, otherwise she wouldn’t be able to help Harry.

She pulled a jumper off a hanger and a pair of jeans from out of her dresser. She showered, brushed her teeth and dressed before practically hurling herself down the stairs, buzzing with magic.

The drive to London only took about 30 minutes. It was more than enough time for Hermione’s anxiety to catch up with her. She loved her aunt Amelia and her aunt Elise, but her cousins were a much different story.

Her aunts were welcoming enough, treating her well enough, but Hermione was weird, and her cousins just couldn’t deal with that.

The oldest, Bellamy, was the unopposed leader. They attended the same school, an upscale Muggle primary school called Burgess Hills, and Bellamy took it upon herself to make Hermione’s life hell both in and out of the classroom.

Bellamy’s little brother, Lucas, was quickly learning to mimic her bullying mentality, despite being only five. Her youngest brother, Alfie, was Hermione’s only respite when it came to Aunt Amelia’s children, but he was two and seemed to be forever stuck in the “mine” phase.

Florence, Aunt Elise’s oldest, resembled a toad. She didn’t go to school with Hermione and Bellamy, but she was Bellamy’s muscle during family get-togethers. Florence’s brother, Duncan, was more of a neutral party. He preferred to stay quiet and keep to himself, and Hermione always made it a point to stick as close to him as possible when their families met up.

Her mother and aunts walked ahead of their children, discussing the shops they wanted to visit that day. Alfie and Lucas would follow their mothers, and Duncan would probably stay in the toy store to play with the trains.

Helen gave Hermione a quick kiss on the cheek and gave slipped a 100-pound note into her hand.

“Okay, kids, you know where to meet, right?” Aunt Amelia asked.

A chorus of yes’s, and they were off.

The meeting point had, for as long as Hermione could remember, been a common area on Tottenham Court Road at the fourth light post between a flower shop and the corner. They all knew how to get there from just about any of the shops they frequented, so if anyone is separated, they knew where to go and wait for an adult. Hermione probably learned it quicker than the other kids; one of Bellamy and Florence’s favorite games was to lure Hermione into a shop they’d never visited before and then ditch her when she’d gotten absorbed in exploring the shop.

Despite herself, she fell for it, every time.

Elise checked her watch. “Right, well it’s 10 now. Why don’t we meet up at 2:30 and get a late lunch?”

Ordinarily, Hermione would take the opportunity to hide away in her favorite bookstores and the library, but today she was a girl on a mission.

She knew Tottenham Court fairly well, having visited frequently throughout her childhood. Still, she’d carefully researched the area and memorized a map of the surrounding streets. Charing Cross met with Tottenham Court, so getting to Diagon Alley wouldn’t be too difficult.

She made like she was going to her usual bookshop, and once everyone had gone their separate ways, she changed direction and began walking to the Charing Cross intersection. It took her a moment to find the Leaky Cauldron. She passed it once or twice before she was able to get herself to see through the glamour that hid it from passing Muggles. Up until the Statute of Secrecy of 1692, the Leaky _was_ a normal pub that catered to wizards and Muggles alike.

Finally, she was able to see past the old broken-down pub for what it was.

She pulled the door open and stepped inside to be greeted by several stares.

Upon seeing a little girl entering his pub, Tom rushed over. She’d mentally prepared herself for this moment. Kids weren’t coming and going at this time of year, and she was a little young anyway, so Tom would be more than a little surprised to see her and would immediately try and usher her out.

She couldn’t let that happen. Her whole plan hindered on her ability to convince the owner that she was supposed to be there.

“Little girl,” he began, not unkindly, “I think you might’ve wandered in on accident. We’re under construction, I doubt you’ll find who you’re looking for here.” He smiled at her, and she could tell that while it was unusual, she wasn’t the first person who wasn’t supposed to be there to wander in off the street. It didn’t occur to him that she may truly be an underage witch.

She cleared her throat.

“No, I’m right where I’m meant to be. I need to get into Diagon Alley.”

She was met with a blank, dumbfounded stare, clearly not sure how to respond.

Letting her magic flare around her, she said, “I’d appreciate if you took me to the courtyard.”

He nodded, still a bit unsure. Children usually came through over the summer to get their school supplies. Seeing a new witch in the winter was unheard of.

“Come along,” he said.

The bar patrons turned back to their drinks and conversations as Tom led her through the backdoor and into the courtyard behind the pub. He watched her curiously as, channeling her magic through her fingers, Hermione silently counted and tapped the bricks. They separated, forming the entrance to Diagon Alley.

Tom gave her a nod, seeming to accept her story, and turned back to the Leaky.

As soon as she stepped through, she was almost bowled over with the weight of nostalgia. Diagon Alley was a sight to behold on any regular day, but during the holidays it really came alive.

She walked quickly, her backpack bouncing against her back.

 _Gringotts first_ , she thought, with a grim sort of determination.

She arrived at the marble fortress and stepped through the double doors. She paused in the entryway, taking in the tellers, and approached the first open one she saw.

Begrudgingly, the goblin looked up from his parchment and pile of coins. “How can I help you?” he asked, sounding mildly put out by her very existence.

“I’d like to open an account. Then I want to exchange some Muggle money and do a withdrawal,” she said, with more confidence than what she felt. The goblins never ceased to intimidate her slightly, and an irrational part of her was screaming at her to abandon ship because there was no way that this could work.

The goblin closed his eyes and took a sharp breath.

“Name, please” he says, his annoyance clearer.

“Hermione Jean Granger.”

And just like that, her account is open. She wonders at it for a moment, just as she did the first time she opened her account at Gringotts. There wasn’t any paperwork, any need to prove she was who she said she was. All it took was her name and her signature on a piece of parchment.

She dropped her backpack on the counter and unzipped the front pocket to pull out her rubber wallet. It’s full, nearly bursting. She pulled the bills out and laid them in a neat pile before upending her wallet and dumping the coins onto the counter in front of the goblin. With a thinly veiled look of disgust, the goblin began counting out her money, and it wasn’t until he was nearly done that she realized she still had the hundred quid her mother gave her earlier that morning. With a sheepish smile and a muttered apology, she pulled it from her pocket and slid it across the counter.

The goblin didn’t bother trying to hide his annoyance this time.

£563.43. Her eyes widened at the total; she hadn’t realized she’d saved so much of her money.

“That comes to 113 galleons, 2 sickles, and 10 knuts,” the goblin said as he swept her money off the counter. “Your vault is 769.” He dropped a large silver key on the counter in front of her. She grabbed the key off the counter and dropped it into her backpack. “Now how much are we withdrawing today?”

“30 galleons, 2 sickles, and 10 knuts, please.”

He counted it out on the counter as he explained that there would be a two galleon fee for the conversion.

She dumped her newly acquired wizard money into her bag and with a final thank you, turned and headed for the post office.

Hermione glanced down at her watch—11:32. Plenty of time.

She stepped into the owl post and was immediately greeted with the sound of soft coos and fluttering wings. Her head barely reached the countertop.

There was a line of Christmas patrons, and it took a few minutes for her to the counter. “How can I help you?” a harried looking employee asked in a thick brogue Hermione couldn’t quite identify. He looked down at her over the counter and gave her an indulgent smile.

“I need to open a post box, please. I’d like to set it up so that the owls can forward my mail to my address in Muggle London. I have some letters I need to send out, too,” she said.

The employee nodded. “There’ll be a fee for the box and for the forwarding, you understand. Altogether today it’s three galleons and two knuts. Then there’s a monthly charge, that’s four sickles. All that okay with you, little witch?”

With a nod, Hermione signed the invoice with the quill provided.

“Do you know where your letters are going?”

Hermione blanched a bit at that. She hadn’t thought much about needing to address the letters. When she’d sent and received post in the past, the addressee hadn’t been much of an issue. They’d always just seemed to know exactly where to go.

“Not to worry, little witch,” the employee smiled, “let me see the letters.”

Hermione pulled the letters out of her bag and laid them out carefully on the counter. “We can look it up here in the records.”

It was quick, but she didn’t miss the panicky expression that crossed his face when he saw that one of the letters was addressed to Sirius Black.

“We’ll send them out, the responses will come into your box, and another owl will forward them along to you. Now unless you explicitly state in your letters who you are, they’ll be sent anonymously. And if anyone comes in here wanting to know anything about you, I won’t be able to provide that information either.”

“Perfect,” she said. It was exactly the degree of anonymity she was looking for.

“I won’t be a moment,” he smiled.

With that, he disappeared into the back. She could hear him talking to the birds in turn and if she craned her neck just so, she could see the man tying letters to their legs and watching them take off.

“Thank you,” smiled Hermione once he returned to the counter.

They exchanged polite farewells and Hermione exited the post office. It was all running so smoothly. Maybe even a little _too_ smoothly.

She was shaken from her thoughts when her stomach gave a loud grumble. She giggled to herself. In all the excitement of this morning, she’d forgotten to stop and eat something for breakfast. She stopped in at Rosa Lee Teabag for a quick cuppa and a pumpkin pastie.

Her stomach sated for the moment, Hermione headed north, her feet seeming to automatically make their way to the Magical Menagerie, in search of an old orange Persian cat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for sticking with it! I know it's a little slow, but in order to do the story justice, some worldbuilding needs to be done. Next chapter should include POV from some other characters as they receive their letters ;)


	3. Chapter 3

Sirius woke to a guard at his cell. He rattled the bars until he knew he had Sirius’ attention, and when the prisoner sat up and turned to the offending noise, the guard said, in a flat tone, “Letter.”

He unceremoniously dropped the envelope through the bars, letting it land on the floor and skitter across the cell floor.

Sirius scoffed, refusing to move from his spot, sure that there had to be some kind of trick behind it. Azkaban had been his home for the past 11 years, and the last real letter he’d received in that time had been from Remus on the one-year anniversary of James and Lily’s death. During the first year of Sirius’ incarceration, Remus had sent hundreds—maybe even thousands—of letters.

Each of the letters was the same. He pleaded and begged for Sirius to come clean, tell the truth, just _admit it_ because he’d feel _better_.

But how could he do that? How could he tell he tell him the real truth?

He didn’t know.

Aside from Lupin, he’d received the occasional Howler and the relatively regular death threat, scathing missives on how much like his family he really was, no matter how hard he tried to pull himself away from the noble house of Black. They all fell on deaf ears, so to speak, because losing two of your best friends has a way of numbing you to the world.

He knew he was coming unhinged, and he knew he should care more about it, but he couldn’t bring himself to even try.

Regardless of the side of the war you were on, everyone has a price. The corruption in Azkaban could be measured by the Galleon.

The curiosity finally got the better of him, and he moved from his spot, reaching for the letter.

It was addressed to him in neat handwriting, no return address, but postmarked through the owl post in Diagon Alley. Someone had bought their anonymity before sending him this letter. Strange.

He tore the envelope, rather more aggressive than he’d meant to, and pulled the letter out. Even stranger than the anonymous nature of the letter was that it wasn’t written on parchment, but paper that was lined with blue and written in black ink.

 _To Mr. Sirius Black_ ,

His eyes dart across the page.

_I’m writing to request your help. I want to help you prove your innocence and connect you with Harry Potter during his upcoming years at Hogwarts. A lot of things are lying in wait, wanting to do him harm. Having a loyal Padfoot at his side could be beneficial to him._

_All I ask is that you consider._

_The first step would be to write to Narcissa Malfoy and offer her son, your second cousin, the Black family title and access to some of the Black family vaults, if she is willing to offer a trial—where you’ll be acquainted with an old friend—in return._

_Sincerely,_

_H.G._

A manic laugh escaped his cracked mouth.

Who in the fuck would send something like this? Who in their right mind would ask him to give up his title and money? It truly didn’t matter to him, but the notion in and of itself was absolutely ridiculous.

He began mindlessly balling up the letter and his mind wandered to Harry.

Is Harry in danger? Is this letter a threat or a warning?

The thought of something befalling Harry made his blood boil. If it meant keeping his godson safe, he’d happily trade all the Galleons in his vaults and his Lord title. He’d trade it all even just to see Moony again.

 _To see an old friend_ …

Maybe the writer knew what really happened that night, what he’d inherently missed. Maybe they knew what was weighing on his heart.

What if it was just a trap or some sort of twisted game? What if his cousin just wanted her boy to succeed and excel?

It didn’t make any sense.

He decided the best course of action would be to just wait it out. He laid the crumpled sheet of paper under the old, thin mattress. If whoever wrote this letter was sincere, they’d have to prove it.

Suddenly, he was struck by one minor detail, and he pulled the letter back out and skimmed through it quickly.

 _Padfoot. They called me Padfoot,_ he thought. _They know what I am._

It was entirely likely they knew more than they should.

With a grim sort of determination, he rooted around his tiny cell, looking for one of his few belongings. Shortly after he’d arrived at Azkaban, he’d used what influence he’d had to convince a guard or two to get him things he’d wanted or needed. One of those things was a quill—now very much used and forlorn looking. The quill was enchanted so that it didn’t need ink, only a surface to write on.

He wasn’t exactly sure _where_ the ink came from, and he didn’t much concern himself with the little details of how the enchantment worked. As long as it functioned the way that it should.

He scribbled a response on the back of the paper the H.G. had sent, and folded it back up, rather more sloppily than before, and waited for a guard to pass by again.

* * *

Saying that Remus Lupin was down on his luck would’ve been an understatement. Remus had been more than down on his luck. He’d never even had it to begin with.

He was homeless, for all intents and purposes. He drifted between dark alleyways, wizarding and muggle pubs alike, occasionally visiting the Shrieking Shack on the nights that wolfsbane was just unattainable or unaffordable.

He’d gotten used to the change over the years, but there was a time when his family was more fortunate. A time before his father squandered their money away.

His father couldn’t bear to spend more time than he absolutely had to. Remus was never sure if it was because he regretted the comments that landed Remus in his…position, or if it was an overall sense of dislike for what he’d become.

Remus relied heavily on his friends over the years. He’d never wanted to be a burden. Not to them, not to anyone. So, when the news of the death of the Potters, and who was responsible for their deaths, reached Remus, he was heartbroken. Two of the marauders, dead. Lily, dead. Thirteen muggles, dead. Sirius locked away forever in Azkaban.

It was too much.

Sirius hadn’t responded to any of his letters. After sending his last, Remus had hit rock bottom.

A bitter voice in the back of his head whispered, often, that becoming like his father was all that he was good for. Drinking away what little money he had was all he’d be able to do with his life. He was well known around the Three Broomsticks.

He was visiting one chilly December night, well into his pint, when an owl dropped a letter in front of him, narrowly missing his beer.

No one had written him for years. The last letter he’d received had been from Dumbledore, informing him of Harry’s placement with his last remaining relatives. In turn, Remus had written to Sirius, thinking it would help knock some sense into him.

He fed the owl a handful of peanuts from the bowl at his table. The owl munched gratefully and perched on the edge of the table, clearly awaiting a response. The post mark caught Remus’ eye—from the post in Diagon Alley.

That made sense, then. Hogsmeade was a long way from Diagon Alley.

Carefully, he opened the envelope and unfolded the letter.

_To Mr. Remus Lupin,_

_I’m writing to request your help. There is a lot that I need to discuss with you, and I would like to meet you in person._

_Harry Potter is in great danger, and he’ll need as much protection around him as possible. I have written to Padfoot, asking for his help as well, but I know that having you, Moony, on board will increase the chances of both Harry’s survival and Padfoot agreeing to what I need from him._

_If we could arrange a meeting in person, I would be happy to explain everything in more detail then._

_Sincerely,_

_H.G._

Lupin downed what was left in his glass.

He skimmed the letter, searching for a return address or any sort of identifier. Nothing.

He ran his hands through his hair. _Something is happening,_ he thought.

If it involved James’s boy, he would happily give what was left of his miserable life. He just needed to give a response.

A found a napkin in the booth, he scribbled out a simple response— _time and place_.

He tucked it into the envelope and passed it back to the owl. It stared at him a moment, obviously waiting for…

Remus sighed. “The recipient will pay for post, but…” he pulled out a small piece of chocolate from inside his coat pocket. “This will make you feel better.”

* * *

Narcissa Malfoy sat in her drawing room, enjoying her afternoon tea, reading her various letters and invitations. Narcissa received more invitations to more functions than she was able to count on any given day, and today was no different, but one letter in particular caught her eye.

She couldn’t say why, for sure. It was plain. There were no seals, or coats of arms. No gold or silver embossing on the envelope.

When she picked up the envelope to full examine it, she noticed there was no return address. Simply her own name and address and the generic marking from the owl post in Diagon Alley. Something entirely beneath her, to be sure.

She stood from her seat and walked to the fireplace, her heels clicking on the marble tile of the drawing room. She was moments from tossing it into the fire without a second thought when something made her stop short. The magic emanating from the envelope. It radiated, rolled off it in waves, practically begging her to open it.

Curious.

Narcissa was no stranger to the occasional hostile letter. More than once, she’d received malicious letters, letters with curses and hexes that, had she opened them upon receiving them, chances were she wouldn’t be where she was now.

Ordinarily, her magic didn’t react in such a way to the magic of the letters she received. This was different.

She looked over the plain envelope again, unsure why she felt so drawn to it, why she felt the need to open it.

She’d absentmindedly made her way back to the high back chair she’d been enjoying her tea in and summoned a gold letter opener from the desk in her study.

_To Mrs. Narcissa Malfoy,_

_I’m writing to request your help. You do not know me yet, but hopefully that will soon change._

At this, Narcissa rolled her eyes. If this was some sort of secret admirer confession or someone seeking to give her “sanctuary”, or worse yet, someone claiming to be a mistress of Lucius’s…

_I want to save Draco from a terrible fate._

_I understand why you wouldn’t want to believe me, but I would like the opportunity to meet you in person so that I can explain. I would like to meet on Christmas Day, in the Leaky Cauldron, at 6 PM._

_Please, I implore you._

There was a pit in Narcissa’s stomach. The magic was strong, embedded into each letter.

It wasn’t something she’d normally find herself reacting to, but there is sorrow and pain in each letter, and it made her question whether her son was truly in danger.

Narcissa snapped her fingers and moments later, her personal elf, Twinkly, appeared.

“Twinkly, please see that my son is alright.” The little elf nodded her head, and with a bow, Apparated away.

 _Narcissa_ —

The writer addressed her— _her_ —by name. Her lips pursed at the anonymous writer’s audacity.

 _Purity will always conquer_ —

Her brows drew together at the Malfoy motto.

_But blood isn’t always pure._

Her nose wrinkled at the play on the Black motto—Always Pure.

Narcissa’s face drew into a scowl. How dare they insult not just one, but two of the most powerful lines of the Sacred 28? Even with the majority of the Black line locked away in Azkaban, they were still a powerful family. Surely, this author had a death wish!

_If you still believe that those named after stars will always be pure, what do you think that is referring to? I don’t think it refers to Draco’s blood status, but rather his heart. It will soon be tainted. You are aware of the scars that your husband has inflicted on him. Please, I implore you once again, let me help you protect your son._

Narcissa’s eyes widened.

How could they know anything of Lucius? Of the scars that he carried from his father’s upbringing, his “training”? The very training that she was doing her best to protect her own son from receiving.

Lucius understands why she is hesitant to leave Draco alone with Abraxas, despite the fact that he is the young heir’s grandfather. But Lucius can only skate around it, hold it off, for so long.

Abraxas had announced just weeks ago that come the new year, he was going to stay at Malfoy Manor, so as to work with Draco. He held the opinion that Lucius was too soft on the boy.

They’d taken care in raising their son, raised the same way that every pureblood of noble birth was raised. He was strong in his beliefs, despite the fact that he didn’t know the entire truth.

A calculated decision. Narcissa saw how haunted her beloved husband was after his father offered him up on a silver platter to the Dark Lord. She’d seen how the Death Eater meetings had taken their toll. Had comforted him from the nightmares and night terrors that they’d never discussed after the sun had risen.

Abraxas would do his best to ensure that Draco followed those footsteps. Narcissa knew how fragile her son’s heart was more than anyone. Draco wasn’t a killer. He could never be a killer.

Did the author of this letter know this?

_H.G._

Narcissa began working through all the H.G.’s she knew in high society, including half-bloods, and even mudbl—muggleborns.

There was Historia Greengrass, the matriarch of the Greengrass family. She’d been trying to procure a betrothal contract from the Malfoy family from the moment Draco was born. And then there was Henry Groony, an old wizard who had dealings with her father, Cygnus. Finally, there was a Holly-Gaines Burill, a muggleborn girl from her Hogwarts days that she remembered teasing mercilessly.

But none of them seemed to fit the bill.

She brought her perfectly manicured and polished nails to her mouth and bit, a disgusting habit she’d picked up as a girl as she watched Bellatrix unravel at the seams and Andromeda shun her family and everything she’d known. She hadn’t done it in years. The last time was probably on her wedding night, something she’d done to attempt to relieve the nerves she’d felt that night.

But what she felt now wasn’t nerves. It was something entirely different.

She jumped slightly as Twinkly Apparated next to her. She’d been so lost in thought she’d forgotten she sent the elf out to check on her son.

“Missus, the young master is with Dobby in the courtyard.”

Narcissa nodded, a feeling of relief washing over her. “Thank you, Twinkly, that will be all,” she said, dismissing the little elf with a wave.

She looked back at the letter in her hand, still unsure what the right answer would be. With more than a little bit of reluctance on her part, she penned a response, agreeing to the time and the place.

A grim thought settled around her, like a cloak—she would have to go into this, prepared to take out this potential adversary. Talk was cheap, after all, and she would take a lot of convincing, if this person truly wanted to help her and her boy.

“Twinkly!” she called, snapping her fingers once more.

The elf popped next to her.

“I need you to send this letter out. Immediately.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed! I promise you that soon Draco will make an appearance!

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos, comments, and general feedback are always welcome and appreciated!  
> Tags will eventually change/update as the story progresses. Also please note the story is going to bounce between the past, present and future to explain different plot points. I'll try to note as such!
> 
> lexery_tonic


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